Gold
by Kang Xiu
Summary: Michel Enjolras the Traumatised at the tender age of twelve, convincing himself he's doing worthwhile things, and making me write an Enjolras who is not Girald.


***Gold***  
  
A circlet of golden charms. A long necklace of small gold flakes, all welded to a gold chain, touching each other with a sound of faint bells, mixing and glittering and sparkling in the candlelight. The flakes were wide, and thin as parchment, and perhaps the maker had intended them to be leaves, or suns, but they were tattered about the edges, frayed into shapes of nothing.  
  
Michel laughed as Yves put it in his hair, clasping it and placing it on his head like a tiara. The flakes swirled into his hair, into ringlets and coils of a different colour gold. Michel's hair was loose from any tieback, and looped down his neck, drifted under his collar and over it, rather in his eyes and caught on his ears. He reached up to touch the necklace, fingers trailing over the metal, surprised a little at how cold it was.  
  
"Now, you are a king."  
  
"Shall I give my gold and riches to the poor?"  
  
"Your demon-people."  
  
"Yes, yes, them, Yves, may I?"  
  
"Of course you may, but don't blame me when Maman finds out what you've done with her jewellery."  
  
Michel laughed again. "Oh, she won't mind. I'm helping them, and they always tell us in the Bible to help others."  
  
He pulled the necklace off, but the gold flakes caught in one coil of his hair, and as he tugged again, harder, wincing a little with a shamed grin, it came free. His hand went down from the force of the tugging, and smashed against the tabletop. Startling with a yelp of pain, he hugged his hand to his chest, nestling it in soft linen.  
  
"Merde!"  
  
Yves smiled sweetly. "I suppose you know what the Bible says about cursing?"  
  
Michel gave him a pained look. "Does it say anything?"  
  
"I don't know; I supposed you did. --Is your hand all right?"  
  
"Yes, fine..." He surveyed it, holding it out gingerly.  
  
"It'll bruise and maybe be swollen, but not for a while."  
  
"I know that." He looked back to the necklace, which had taken up residence on the floor. The impact of the table had shattered the clasp, and flakes come loose from the links that held them to the chain, and it had come to pieces. He sighed and fell to his knees, gathering up the flakes, and the rest of the pieces, and tucking them rather hurriedly into his pocket.  
  
"Oh, look on the bright side. Now you've a perfectly good excuse to give it out piece by piece to the" - Yves struck a pose - "tragic demon-people of the streets."  
  
"Be quiet." Michel straightened. "But..." He turned to the door.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"I shall do as you said."  
  
If Yves had said anything else, he missed it, escaping the room and from there, the house. It was twilight outside, and the moon was only cresented; he was therefore left with little light, even from the stars. He shivered a moment in the cold air, aware suddenly that he was outside in late autumn dressed only in his breeches and a thin shirt, without shoes. He cursed again, quietly, wishing he'd at least thought of that, but he didn't dare go back inside before his task was completed and risk being caught. He let his eyes stray about, searching for the poor who lived about this new house, further from the country and closer to the city.  
  
After a while of wandering, his feet hurt, and it was with relieved triumph that he came upon an alleyway that ran to a dead end. Feeling a faint worry, he walked down it, looking about himself for any sign of life. Without warning, he tripped on something, and sprawled headlong on the ground, letting out a soft cry without meaning to. He scrabbled to his hands and knees, facing whatever the obstruction might have been, and found himself face to face with a young urchin.  
  
She *was* like a demon; at least, like his idea of a demon. She was far, far too thin, and her face was blackened with dirt and soot. She had a cut above her left eye that dripped blood down her face and her neck, and her lips were cracked and bleeding as well. Her eyes were large and hollow and blank, and she stared at him, clearly frightened, half-lifting one hand with broken fingernails as though she meant to strike him.  
  
He gave her a smile, tentative, and sat back on his feet, hand diving into his pocket to retrieve the flakes. He offered her the palmful, pressing the pieces into her uprisen hand, and it was cold, and slick, and grimy. For a moment, their eyes met, his innocent and offering and trying to reassure, mixed with half-shyness; and hers devoid of almost everything but pale fear and bitterness and resignation. He tore his glance away, and stood, brushing off dirt, and turning away. She didn't move, now staring at the flakes in disbelief. He looked back at her once, and began to run, his golden coils thrown back, his eyes stinging, but warm with a kind of satisfaction over having done his good deed.  
  
~*~*~  
  
His mother, when she heard, was not overly distraught about the loss of the necklace. It was not until later that Michel found out that it was made of iron, painted with gold.  
  
Yves could not help but laugh, and Michel could not help but hit him. 


End file.
